Out of the Blue
by That Kid With the Long Coat
Summary: John receives a text out of the blue and is told to come to 221B as soon as possible. Is Sherlock back from the dead? What adventure is the detective going to hurl them into this time? Also, who is this mystery man with him? Rated T for now. Possible future Johnlock. (It's actually very likely. Prepare thy selves.)
1. The Violin

**Meet me at 221B, if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway.**

**Received: 8:00 p.m.**

John rubbed his eyes blearily as he read the text. It was well past four in the morning, and h was more exhausted than usual. It had been a hell of a time working overtime in the A&E. He had been planning on going home and crashing on the first flat surface he met when he walked in the door… but now…

Who would want him at 221B? John hadn't been there in, Christ, years. Not since-

Well, not since the fall, really.

It couldn't be Mrs Hudson. She had accepted that he was never going back long ago. As far as he was aware, however, she wasn't going to rent the place out either. The last time he checked, everything was still boxed up, left to gather dust on her miscellaneously-stained carpet. Except for the violin. He had taken that a year or two ago.

He had been in the neighborhood. Stamford had invited him out drinking, thinking maybe something social would do him good, and if not, the alcohol might. It did for a little while, but it did nothing for his heart. What felt like a stab wound or a bullet hole was numbed until he felt almost dead. He felt so alone, so isolated, even surrounded by people. He needed Sherlock, he needed to be home. So he left.

John didn't necessarily realise where he had gone until he had walked up to the door and subconsciously pulled out the key Mrs Hudson had insisted he keep. The lock turned with ease, welcoming him inside. He was met with darkness. Either no one was home, or Mrs Hudson was asleep. He peered over to the door of her flat. Nothing.

Without further delay, he rushed up the seventeen steps to his old flat. Everything looked the same, yet it didn't.

The smiley face stared at him from the horrid wallpaper he secretly loved. His chair was there, and so was the sofa and other furniture. But the usual clutter wasn't scattered about. Sherlock's various case files were carefully packed away, along with everything else he owned. Boxes littered the floor precariously. Everything looked bare without all the books and papers and experiments. The whole place was covered in a good amount of dust. John sneezed, and the sudden noise seemed to echo.

It all looked hazy in the darkness, but he didn't want to turn on a light. Instead, with soft steps, and eyes slowly getting accustomed to the dim, he walked through the maze Mrs Hudson left and took a good look around. It hurt.

God it hurt.

John had no idea he could remember so much just by looking at empty space and blank walls. But it wasn't empty space. Sherlock had left his marks everywhere. He filled the room even when he was dead and all his things were packed away.

There was the knife mark in the mantle. John could see Sherlock holding a handful of letters. Whatever he approved of was set on his desk. What he didn't was stabbed animatedly and therefore affixed to the mantle until John realised the bills hadn't been paid in months. He saw the indent in Sherlock's chair, bullet holes in the wall, Sherlock firing his pistol, the face in yellow graffiti. He saw the mark on the kitchen table, chemical and blood stains on various surfaces. And then…

There it was. Moved somewhere it shouldn't have been, touched by intruding hands. The one thing that said "Sherlock" more than anything.

The violin. John didn't know how he hadn't spotted it, hidden amongst the chaos on the carpet. The bow wasn't far away. Oh, how he longed to hear it played again. He regretted how he would hate the sound of he accursed instrument being plucked and abused at two in the morning, only to be coaxed into a quiet melody by four. He hated himself for not appreciating it when he had it. He hated the fact that he hadn't asked Sherlock to play it more often. John ran his fingers down the neck, dared to pluck at a beckoning string.

The sound it made was hollow, just as John felt.

He set the instrument on the side table beside Sherlock's chair, where is belonged, and made to leave. He could feel his chest tightening, and a panic attack setting in. His leg started to hurt again, and he wished he had his cane. He wished for a great many things as he walked out of the flat as empty-handed as he had walked in.

He stood outside for a long while, head bowed, focused on keeping his breathing even. With a glance, he saw the dusty violin. It seemed to beckon to him, begging for someone to pay attention to it, to please take it, please love it.

John was already in the cab when he realized he held a violin case in his lap.

So not Mrs Hudson. Not Mycroft. The man hadn't had anything to do with John since Sherlock's funeral. He didn't even cry, but John could see he was screaming on the inside. They shook hands. John wanted to hug him almost. His blue eyes looked so sorrowful behind his mask. Briefly, John wondered what he was doing with himself nowadays. He was ripped out of his thoughts by a sudden ping.

**Where is my violin? I'll be very cross if Mrs Hudson sold it.**

This was not a funny joke.

**Too bad it's not here, I was so looking forward to playing it.**

It was, in fact, a terrible joke, and John _would_ find whoever had thought themselves funny enough to even-

**Oh, by the way John, this is in no way a joke.**

_What?_

**It is me. I am alive. Now get your arse to 221B, I know you're done at Barts'.**

_How?_

**Please, I need you as soon as possible. Get in a cab now.**

John thought for a second.

_**This can't be Sherlock, he never says 'please'.**_

There was a meager pause while John waited.

**I've been told it's polite. Now please get your arse in a cab and get to the flat now before I have to leave. It's important.**

John thought back to the first time he was texted to get to the flat as soon as possible.

_**Need me to text another serial murderer?**_

**If it will get you over here. Hurry up!**

_**Alright, fine. On my way.**_

John was in a cab before he knew it, and was on the way to Baker Street in less than five minutes. He had a little ride there, and decided to text Mycroft while he waited.

_**Sherlock may be alive. Don't ask me how.**_

**I have been made aware of the current situation, yes.**

**MH**

_**So you knew?**_

**Not until ten minutes ago. He has been texting me immature things incessantly.**

**MH**

John smiled.

Okay, maybe the bastard was back.

He was going to relish the moment now before he got to the flat, because as soon as he saw Sherlock's perfect face, he was going to punch it in.

* * *

_A/N: No idea where this came from, but I like it. Now I have this, and my Mystrade to deal with. Oh joy. Oh well._


	2. There's Someone Else

John watched as the city passed by through the window. They were getting close; he could see familiar shops and buildings now. He was just beginning to question whether or not this was really a good idea, when there was a loud bang. John flinched, and suddenly the cab veered over center. The cabbie started shouting, and instinctively John held on to anything he could. Thankfully, there was really no one on the street at a quarter after four in the morning, so due to the empty road and the cabbie's frantic steering and break-work, they only barely bumped the curb of the pavement.

John and the cabbie let out a sigh, and both of them rushed out of the cab to see what the problem was.

"Well, I'll be damned," the cabbie said. "Me tyre blew out."

John was about to nod in agreement, but something didn't feel quite right. Not under these circumstances. He knelt by the tyre and looked at what was left of the rubber. Oh it was a blow out all right. But is wasn't accidental. Sticking his finger into the perfect, small hole he found made John feel instantly exposed. He wondered briefly why he stopped carrying his pistol before he glanced warily about. All he saw were black windows and dark alleyways. Who knows what - or who - they were hiding.

With a shudder, John stood to his feet. He shook hands with the poor bloke, offering his sympathies, and dug out his wallet to pay the man. He frowned when he realized he only had one £50 note he had been reluctant to break. With a sigh, he handed it over.

"Keep the change," he said with a long-weary smile.

The cabbie dipped his head and said his thanks, and John hurriedly went on his merry way to what he hoped wasn't some sort of elaborate trap.

* * *

There were no words to describe John's sense of relief when he reached the door of 221B. He took a moment to lean against it, feeling the old wood beneath his forehead. Of course, he wasn't safe yet, but it felt nice to be on his doorstep. As he reached for the handle, something caught his attention. A yellow sticky note was adhered to the door, just under his eye-level.

_Come on in, John._

John could feel his brow furrowing in confusion. This wasn't Sherlock's handwriting. Sherlock had two sets of script - a nearly illegible scribble, and a long, swooping scrawl that was so pristine that John was amazed that it wasn't computer font. This was somewhere in the middle. It was written in broken, but neat cursive, with small capital "e's" and "n's", and a swirled "c", "j", and "h". Taking the note off of the door, he stuck it in his pocket and slipped into the flat.

There was a solitary wall lamp lit, the only sign of life in the place. Everything was dark and quiet. John proceeded with caution up the stairs, well aware this could be a trap. He made care to step over the squeaky stair, and proceeded to the landing. He peered into the sitting room from the doorway, making as little of himself visible as possible.

Across the room, by the big window, was a tall man in a long coat, standing in near-darkness, if not for the light of the streetlamps shining through a crack in the curtain. He made care not to turn his face to the street, yet he was half-hidden from John in the shadows. He could make out pale skin and prominent cheekbones, cupid's bow lips bathed in black, flashing eyes that were grey in the dim. His breath caught in his throat.

_He hasn't changed a bit._

No, that wasn't quite true. He had changed a lot.

The most noticeable change was his short hair, cut close to his scalp, but long enough to curl at his hairline and around his ears. The hue wasn't as dark and seemed to have a red tint that John remembered had only appeared every few months. _He must be a natural ginger like Mycroft._ A small snicker escaped his slightly ajar mouth at the thought of Sherlock dying his hair in defiance, a desperate attempt to deny any connection to his brother. He immediately shut up when he realised those piercing eyes were fixated on him. Under them was a small smirk.

"_John_."

The deep baritone reverberated around the room, and seemed to vibrate through John's chest. He swallowed and stepped through the doorway. "Sherlock," he managed.

He looked thinner, more lean, as he walked across the room, stepping on and over boxes. The lines of his face seemed sharper, and there were dark bags under his eyes, though somehow, he looked younger. More vibrant than ever. John noticed as the man walked on tiptoe through the maze. He still had the balance of a cat, and was just as silent.

When he came to a standstill a metre or two away, they simply stood, sizing each other up. John knew Sherlock could tell the past three years had not been as kind to him as they had been to his friend. There seemed to be a wistful look in those eyes. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but another voice interrupted him.

"I found it!" someone exclaimed in excitement from the kitchen. John's eyes flashed over to see who it was, but not before he saw his friend look away with a red blush glowing on his alabaster cheeks. He was met with a short-ish blond man of about his height, with bright eyes and an innocent smile. He was dressed in black dress pants, sporting suspenders that had fallen off of his shoulders, and a dress shirt. A pair of rimless glasses were tucked into a breast pocket. He held a box in his hand, and was leafing through it distractedly, so that he didn't even notice the fact that John was there until the doctor turned to his friend and frowned heavily.

"Just who the hell is _that_?"

* * *

_A/C (author's comments): Mmm, yes, who is it? Any theories?_


End file.
